Tequila
by DelektorskiChick
Summary: Just a fluffly little piece about what happens when Natasha gets drunk. Like really drunk. On tequila. Vodka is like water to her. Tequila... that'll knock her for a loop. Rated M for language and... compromising situations.


**A/N:** Soooooooooo sorry I didn't post this last week before I lost internet access! The Appalachian Mountains can suck this time of year. Especially when you're driving with someone who only listens to talk radio and even though you love the people like family you really just want to shoot them-

Sorry. Rant over. Here's _Tequila_… It was inspired by the song _Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off_ and a really caffeine warped conversation with my best friend (and Nat-headspace-person) Rosabelle. I'll have the first part of my new story (also going to have a Nat viewpoint written by Rosabelle as well) up soon! I just have to think of a title…

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything having to do with anything. I'm broke.

.0.o.0.o.0.

It was 1:37 on a Thursday morning when the knocking started on Clint's door. Bleary-eyed and sleep deprived, he yawned as he opened it. When he saw who was on the other side and what she was wearing, his jaw just kind of stayed there.

The nearly naked Natasha in his apartment hallway had her hair down around her shoulders, was wearing a pair of cutoff shorts that did justice to their name, a tiny plaid shirt that was knotted up between her breasts, and not much else. A pair of cowboy boots and a really wide smile.

Nat giggled at the shocked look on his face.

Make that a really wide, _drunk_ smile.

She placed her hand against his chest and pushed him into his apartment, shoving the door shut behind them with one booted foot. He backed away from her as fast as his tired brain would let him until he hit the wall on the far side of his living room. Once there, Nat giggled again as she pushed her entire body up against his. He put his hands on her upper arms -intending to push her away- when she brought her mouth down on his.

What little rational thought he had left fled.

Sure, he and Nat had kissed before, but that was only to keep a cover intact for a job. This wasn't an alias, wasn't her playing a role. This was Natasha, just herself, and she was kissing him. Making his blood rush down and out of his brain.

She tasted sweet; sweet with a little bite.

He was the one who pulled up for air, backs of his hands against the wall as she was running her hands up under his shirt.

"As much as I like this, Tash, I can't let it happen." His voice turned into almost a chuckle. "You're drunk. Like, really drunk."

The hands kept exploring lower and lower. "So? Pepper was mad at Tony. She came over and we had margaritas." He grabbed her hands before she could slip them in his pants. She giggled again, leaned in and ran her tongue down the shell of his ear. She went on in a not-so-quiet whisper, "I know you want me; everyone does. People already think we're fucking each other. Why don't you take the Russian spy to your bedroom and show her your leader?" She worked one hand free and slid it down between their bodies, cupping him firmly.

The plan formed in the half second Clint had before sheer desire took over what little control he had left. "Yes. Let's do that. The room with the bed."

Natasha giggled again -_God_, that sound was unnerving- before she pulled away and led the way back to his room. He had to bite the inside of his cheek when he saw most of her ass hanging out of her shorts. The barely-there shirt in combination with the shorts revealed vast amounts of porcelain skin. It had him hard enough to hammer nails. He pressed the heel of his hand to his groin and stifled the groan that followed.

There was no way in hell he'd survive the next morning if he really slept with his partner. His downstairs brain didn't really care, but his upstairs one sort of did.

"You coming, Hawkeye?" the singsong lilt of Russia was sliding back into her voice.

"Oh, I'll be coming alright…" He muttered, limping towards his doorway. Natasha was laying across his bed, and _fuck,_ that turned him on even more, if that was possible.

"Aren't you gonna come unwrap your present, Clint?" She thrust her chest out, presenting him with the knot between her breasts. "I tied the bow all special, just for you."

"Were you any less drunk or I any less sober, I'd be all over you in a heartbeat Tasha. But that's not the case." He turned his back on one sight he'd never forget as long as he lived and opened one of his messy dresser drawers. He pulled out one of his old SHIELD exercise shirts and held it out to her, then steeled himself for one of the most difficult missions of his life.

"Tasha, I can't tell you how bad it turns me on to see you wearing my clothes. Put this on for me?"

He turned his back as Natasha undid the tiny zipper on her shorts.

There were some lines you couldn't come back from once you crossed them. Sleeping with your partner was one; watching those shorts come off would be another.

"I'm ready, Clint." And God, the needy thrum in her voice nearly had him doubled over in an effort not to give in to her.

"Good. Now get in bed, under the sheet, and turn the light out. I've gotta do something first."

"I ever tell you that you giving me orders is hotter than hell? So hurry, cause I wanna _fuck_."

Clint whimpered, fucking _whimpered_ as he closed his bedroom door behind him. It took several deep breaths before he could stand up straight, several more before he could see clearly. He sat down on his worn out couch and put his head in his hands. He sat there for a good fifteen minutes until he managed to get himself calmed down enough to open his bedroom door and check on Natasha.

She was sound asleep and snoring like a sailor.

Clint let out a sigh of relief, pulled the door carefully closed, and laid down on his couch. He could handle a night on the sofa if it meant he could look at himself in the mirror come morning.

.0.o.0.o.0.

Clint woke up at 9:42 the next morning when the coffee pot finished its auto run. He sat up and stretched, a blanket that hadn't been there the night before falling from his shoulders. He scratched his head and yawned as he gently pushed open his bedroom door.

His bed was made, the shirt he'd given Nat neatly folded on the pillow. A quick survey of his closet revealed that the spare clothes she kept in a shoe box on his top shelf were missing, as was one of his jackets. A glance out the window confirmed that there was a light drizzle outside. One of his spare toothbrushes was opened on the sink, and the damp towels told him she'd taken a shower too.

Man, he'd be sound asleep if she managed to do all that without him waking.

Another yawn prompted him towards the coffee maker and one of his purple H mugs that Nat had once bought him as a joke. Leaning against the pot was a note written on the back of one of his many takeout menus.

_C.-_

_Thank you for not._

_-N._

He smiled. Looked like he'd made the right call last night after all.

.0.o.0.o.0.


End file.
